Thursday, February 27, 2020
Macbeth and His Lawnmower - poem (of a sort)
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
My day of mowing has fallen into the sere
The yellow leaf, the brown leaf, still more leaves
Leaves, leaves, leaves, heaps of leaves, Birnam leaves - aaaaargh!
I look toward Birnam – weeds begin to move!
And that mowing which should accompany old age
I must not look to have; the mower won’t start -
Curses, both loud and deep, against false starts
The carburetor-breath which mocketh me
My day of mowing has fallen into the sere –
Methinks – methinks me’ll haveth another beer
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Macbeth and His Lawnmower
My day of mowing has fallen into the sere
The yellow leaf, the brown leaf, still more leaves
Leaves, leaves, leaves, heaps of leaves, Birnam leaves - aaaaargh!
I look toward Birnam – weeds begin to move!
And that mowing which should accompany old age
I must not look to have; the mower won’t start -
Curses, both loud and deep, against false starts
The carburetor-breath which mocketh me
My day of mowing has fallen into the sere –
Methinks – methinks me’ll haveth another beer
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
Giving Up Catholics for Lent - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Every Lent of our lives we have been told
That Lent is not about giving up things
That instead of giving up things we should
Give away love, especially for some cause de jour
Every Lent of our lives we have been told
That we’re doing Lent wrong, whatever we’re doing
That what we did last year is wrong this year
We have always been wrong, but now we’re right
Oh, let us ignore the whine of Catholics online
And
Focus on penance and prayer, Host and Cup
(And may all us Catholics just shut up)
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Giving up Catholics for Lent
He(ck) hath no fury like a Catholic with an InterGossip site
Every Lent of our lives we have been told
That Lent is not about giving up things
That instead of giving up things we should
Give away love, especially for some cause de jour
Every Lent of our lives we have been told
That we’re doing Lent wrong, whatever we’re doing
That what we did last year is wrong this year
We have always been wrong, but now we’re right
Oh, let us ignore the whine of Catholics online
And
Focus on penance and prayer, Host and Cup
(And may all us Catholics just shut up)
Tuesday, February 25, 2020
The Fifth Luminous Mystery - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
But we are invited to a rented hall
And who paid for the cleaning deposit?
I’m a little nervous; do I look okay?
Because I’m not anybody special
But the Host makes everyone feel welcome
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The Fifth Luminous Mystery
But we are invited to a rented hall
And who paid for the cleaning deposit?
I’m a little nervous; do I look okay?
This is a big deal. I’m not even Jewish
But I’m honored to have been invitedBecause I’m not anybody special
But the Host makes everyone feel welcome
I know that no one is worthy of this
But still I ask myself – am I Judas?Monday, February 24, 2020
The Amazing Accidental Spy State - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
There are precedents: Orwell’s Airstrip One
Zamyatin’s One State, Jonestown in Guyana
Rand’s Council of Vocations, Spectre, Smersh
And of course Patrick McGoohan’s The Village
(Six of one, half a dozen of the other)
Mass Surveillance, OGPU, SMERSH, KGB
MI6, Gestapo, Bundeswehr, Red Guard
Abwehr, Stasi, DGI, SS, Cheka, COINTELPRO
FBI, Cheka, Special Branch, Okhrana
(and a spy drone in a pear tree)
But the spy cameras looking in on me
I installed myself - my idea, you see!
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The Amazing Accidental Spy State
The Famous Doorbell Cameras
Which are Sometimes Found in Doorbells
There are precedents: Orwell’s Airstrip One
Zamyatin’s One State, Jonestown in Guyana
Rand’s Council of Vocations, Spectre, Smersh
And of course Patrick McGoohan’s The Village
(Six of one, half a dozen of the other)
Mass Surveillance, OGPU, SMERSH, KGB
MI6, Gestapo, Bundeswehr, Red Guard
Abwehr, Stasi, DGI, SS, Cheka, COINTELPRO
FBI, Cheka, Special Branch, Okhrana
(and a spy drone in a pear tree)
But the spy cameras looking in on me
I installed myself - my idea, you see!
Sunday, February 23, 2020
The Broom That Stood by Itself When the Moon was Just Right - Doggerel
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
I raised a broom up – and it stood alone!
But then I realized, with a gasp and a groan
There would be big trouble; it wasn’t my own -
‘Twas the broom my teacher rode to school on!
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The Broom That Stood by Itself When the Moon was Just Right
I raised a broom up – and it stood alone!
But then I realized, with a gasp and a groan
There would be big trouble; it wasn’t my own -
‘Twas the broom my teacher rode to school on!
Saturday, February 22, 2020
Just Put "Sapphic" in the Title - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Erinna popped over for a cup of tea
With Sappho, maybe a cigarette or two
And a chat about hendecasyllables
Then she walked home
Please forgive my poor attempt at a Sapphic stanza, but that’s part of my equally poor joke about expectations.
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Just Put “Sapphic” in the Title
Erinna popped over for a cup of tea
With Sappho, maybe a cigarette or two
And a chat about hendecasyllables
Then she walked home
Please forgive my poor attempt at a Sapphic stanza, but that’s part of my equally poor joke about expectations.
Friday, February 21, 2020
"Your Guys Were Chained Out This Week" - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Even under the lowering overcast
The perimeter’s razor wire shines bright
While the headlights of the roving patrol
Search carefully across the parking lot
I show my driving license and my face
To a camera, and pass the clicks and clanks
Of gates and bolts – but no further this day:
“The last of your guys were chained 1 out this week”
May God watch over them, wherever they are –
They know the lessons far better than I
1 “Chained” is the in-house pronunciation of “changed,” meaning transferred. No one is in fact chained.
This poem is not a criticism of anyone; prisoners are frequently transferred for reasons of education, health care, therapy, pre-discharge services, and in this instance the conversion of the facility from a general population unit to a drug-rehab program.
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
“Your Guys Were Chained Out This Week”
Prison Volunteer
Even under the lowering overcast
The perimeter’s razor wire shines bright
While the headlights of the roving patrol
Search carefully across the parking lot
I show my driving license and my face
To a camera, and pass the clicks and clanks
Of gates and bolts – but no further this day:
“The last of your guys were chained 1 out this week”
May God watch over them, wherever they are –
They know the lessons far better than I
1 “Chained” is the in-house pronunciation of “changed,” meaning transferred. No one is in fact chained.
This poem is not a criticism of anyone; prisoners are frequently transferred for reasons of education, health care, therapy, pre-discharge services, and in this instance the conversion of the facility from a general population unit to a drug-rehab program.
Thursday, February 20, 2020
But Who Makes the Candidates' Beds? - Weekly Column 20 February 2020
Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Once upon a time there was, and presumably still is, a retired admiral who wrote a book telling us to make our beds. The book apparently sells well, for it is still on display in the bookstores.
Make Your Bed – yeah, that’s a big seller among teenaged readers.
The irony is that admirals do not make their beds; they have servants – formerly called stewards but now folded with other service workers into the catch-all “culinary specialist” rating - to do that for them.
One wonders if the fellows who made the admiral’s beds for him have read the admiral’s book on the making of beds. Maybe they asked him to autograph their copies.
The matter of the making of beds connects with the presidential candidates we heard rattling their dentures, hearing aids, and outrage at each other in Las Vegas the other night.
Does Bernie (such a cozy, cuddly name) Sanders make his bed in the mornings? Does Amy Klobuchar? Does Senator Biden make his bed or does he just give it his patented weird stare? Does Senator Warren break into PTSD tears when she recalls once having seen a poor man making his bed?
Michael Bloomberg thinks farmers and plumbers are stupid, indicating both a lack of humility as well as of perception of reality, so one does not imagine him meditatively making his bed before toddling off to a day of wheelbarrowing his billions of dollars about like Donald Duck’s Uncle Scrooge.
Almost all presidential candidates babble patronizingly about The People, The Little People, The Working People, Les Deplorables, arrogantly stamping our lives with rows of adjectives: black, white, the cringe-worthy “people of color” thing, brown, working-class, female, Joe Sixpack, male, soccer mom, straight, LBGTQ-and-a-partridge-in-a-pear-tree, rednecks, young, middle-aged, old, evangelicals, and on and on.
When a presidential candidate looks at you and me, I don’t know that she or he (one candidate cannot be “they”) sees you and me; she or he sees a stereotype, a vague blur in a voting bloc that must be group-addressed from a catalogue of cliches. To the candidate class we are not individuals, but only cardboard figures that decorate the sets of the Potemkin Villages of their bubbled minds.
Consider the line-ups of presidential candidates in either of the dominant political parties: who makes their beds, drives their cars, makes their morning coffee, cleans their floors, screens their calls, repairs their plumbing, serves their meals, and carries their briefcases?
Will those who make the candidates’ beds vote for them?
Now about your bed: when the moon is aligned with Mars and the Secret Hidden Planet Cucucucu you can stand your mattress on end and it will make itself. Really! NASA said so! You can look it up on the InterGossip!
That’s about as believable as the fantasy that admirals make up their own beds.
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
But Who Makes The Candidates’ Beds?
Once upon a time there was, and presumably still is, a retired admiral who wrote a book telling us to make our beds. The book apparently sells well, for it is still on display in the bookstores.
Make Your Bed – yeah, that’s a big seller among teenaged readers.
The irony is that admirals do not make their beds; they have servants – formerly called stewards but now folded with other service workers into the catch-all “culinary specialist” rating - to do that for them.
One wonders if the fellows who made the admiral’s beds for him have read the admiral’s book on the making of beds. Maybe they asked him to autograph their copies.
The matter of the making of beds connects with the presidential candidates we heard rattling their dentures, hearing aids, and outrage at each other in Las Vegas the other night.
Does Bernie (such a cozy, cuddly name) Sanders make his bed in the mornings? Does Amy Klobuchar? Does Senator Biden make his bed or does he just give it his patented weird stare? Does Senator Warren break into PTSD tears when she recalls once having seen a poor man making his bed?
Michael Bloomberg thinks farmers and plumbers are stupid, indicating both a lack of humility as well as of perception of reality, so one does not imagine him meditatively making his bed before toddling off to a day of wheelbarrowing his billions of dollars about like Donald Duck’s Uncle Scrooge.
Almost all presidential candidates babble patronizingly about The People, The Little People, The Working People, Les Deplorables, arrogantly stamping our lives with rows of adjectives: black, white, the cringe-worthy “people of color” thing, brown, working-class, female, Joe Sixpack, male, soccer mom, straight, LBGTQ-and-a-partridge-in-a-pear-tree, rednecks, young, middle-aged, old, evangelicals, and on and on.
When a presidential candidate looks at you and me, I don’t know that she or he (one candidate cannot be “they”) sees you and me; she or he sees a stereotype, a vague blur in a voting bloc that must be group-addressed from a catalogue of cliches. To the candidate class we are not individuals, but only cardboard figures that decorate the sets of the Potemkin Villages of their bubbled minds.
Consider the line-ups of presidential candidates in either of the dominant political parties: who makes their beds, drives their cars, makes their morning coffee, cleans their floors, screens their calls, repairs their plumbing, serves their meals, and carries their briefcases?
Will those who make the candidates’ beds vote for them?
Now about your bed: when the moon is aligned with Mars and the Secret Hidden Planet Cucucucu you can stand your mattress on end and it will make itself. Really! NASA said so! You can look it up on the InterGossip!
That’s about as believable as the fantasy that admirals make up their own beds.
-30-
"Inside Pentagon's Secret UFO Program" - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Speculation:
Heading the secret UFO program
Is a brittle colonel with crystals and spheres
Magic pyramids on a desk at home
And a diploma from M.I.T. on the wall
A Captain Picard doll, essential oils
Once posted an indiscretion to Afghanistan
Where it discreetly died, and blocks promotions
For the enlisted men who do the work
Plays Elvis at night to the Taos Hum
Begging the outer-space aliens to come
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
“Inside Pentagon’s Secret UFO Program”
-Drudge
Speculation:
Heading the secret UFO program
Is a brittle colonel with crystals and spheres
Magic pyramids on a desk at home
And a diploma from M.I.T. on the wall
A Captain Picard doll, essential oils
Once posted an indiscretion to Afghanistan
Where it discreetly died, and blocks promotions
For the enlisted men who do the work
Plays Elvis at night to the Taos Hum
Begging the outer-space aliens to come
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
Diag | ramming / Sentences - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Indirect object dangling \ bicycles
Compound | subject predicate nominative
Simple state-of-bean / or linking herb
Simple object, simple subject, simple me
Understood you? No, I don’t understand
Direct obstacle simple predicate compound
Simple predicate compound predicate
Stupid stick figures appositive plop
| __________ //////// ----------__________ direct object simple subject simple object direct subject LePage’s Paste predicate adjective clause as direct object understood you appositivescomplexsentencesimplesentenceAaaaargh!
Principal’s claws!!!!!!!!!!
/----(phhhht!)-----|----\
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Diag|ramming / Sentences
Indirect object dangling \ bicycles
Compound | subject predicate nominative
Simple state-of-bean / or linking herb
Simple object, simple subject, simple me
Understood you? No, I don’t understand
Direct obstacle simple predicate compound
Simple predicate compound predicate
Stupid stick figures appositive plop
| __________ //////// ----------__________ direct object simple subject simple object direct subject LePage’s Paste predicate adjective clause as direct object understood you appositivescomplexsentencesimplesentenceAaaaargh!
Principal’s claws!!!!!!!!!!
/----(phhhht!)-----|----\
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
An Irrefutable Bullet-Point to the Nape of the Neck - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The moon was full, the snow was deep, he died
He was pushed to his knees in the shadows
“Just for the sake of curiosity,”
He asked the cold, “How much did I get right?”
“Too much,” a supervisory voice replied
The moon was full, the snow was deep, he died
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
An Irrefutable Bullet-Point to the Nape of the Neck
The moon was full, the snow was deep, he died
He was pushed to his knees in the shadows
“Just for the sake of curiosity,”
He asked the cold, “How much did I get right?”
“Too much,” a supervisory voice replied
The moon was full, the snow was deep, he died
Monday, February 17, 2020
The Consolation of Poetry - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Boethius found consolation through
The teachings of Lady Philosophy
Austere and beautiful, whose logic held
The prisoner’s hand to his execution
An unread poet finds consolation through
The teachings of Erato, Thalia,
And Calliope, austere and beautiful
(And in his collection of rejection notes)
Boethius and I together know
The Muses love us, wherever we go
1 I would be surprised if “The Consolation of Poetry” has not already been used as a title of a book or poem. If it has, please advise me so I can change the title of my little scribble. Life is good.
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The Consolation of Poetry 1
Boethius found consolation through
The teachings of Lady Philosophy
Austere and beautiful, whose logic held
The prisoner’s hand to his execution
An unread poet finds consolation through
The teachings of Erato, Thalia,
And Calliope, austere and beautiful
(And in his collection of rejection notes)
Boethius and I together know
The Muses love us, wherever we go
1 I would be surprised if “The Consolation of Poetry” has not already been used as a title of a book or poem. If it has, please advise me so I can change the title of my little scribble. Life is good.
Sunday, February 16, 2020
Voicing my Voice for the Voiceless - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
You cannot take my voice from me, my voice
For the voiceless who have no voices to voice
I am taking my voice out to The People.
My message, and my message for The People
That The People may find their voice, their dreams
And their message and voice their message to
The world to those who have no voice so I
Must be the voice for those who have no voice
You cannot take my voice from me, my voice
My message my voice my message my voice
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Voicing My Voice for the Voiceless
You cannot take my voice from me, my voice
For the voiceless who have no voices to voice
I am taking my voice out to The People.
My message, and my message for The People
That The People may find their voice, their dreams
And their message and voice their message to
The world to those who have no voice so I
Must be the voice for those who have no voice
You cannot take my voice from me, my voice
My message my voice my message my voice
Winter Among the Alien Corn: Primary Elections - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A variant appears in The Road to Magdalena, 2012
Costumed in baseball caps to plagiarize
Plebeian brotherhood among the swains,
Beg-hopeful archons of The People pose
Occupy-smug among foam coffee cups
And this is said to be an apprenticeship
For sending planes to bomb some far-off land
And wisely for to rule a people lost
Among wide flat-screened images of porn
Now let us chant:
The whole world is laughing
The whole world is laughing
The whole world is laughing
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A variant appears in The Road to Magdalena, 2012
Winter Amid the Alien Corn: Primary Elections
Costumed in baseball caps to plagiarize
Plebeian brotherhood among the swains,
Beg-hopeful archons of The People pose
Occupy-smug among foam coffee cups
And this is said to be an apprenticeship
For sending planes to bomb some far-off land
And wisely for to rule a people lost
Among wide flat-screened images of porn
Now let us chant:
The whole world is laughing
The whole world is laughing
The whole world is laughing
Saturday, February 15, 2020
Finding That Smoking Gun Flying off the Shelves at the Epicenter of Ground Zero - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
‘Twas a riveting tale, flying off the shelves
A must-read forging a road at ground zero
An epicenter unlocking a path
To where you found the smoking gun – one hopes
That the gun will break before the news does
Because news is always breaking, but not
The guns, which always seem to empower us all
In breaking a glass floor or ceiling or something
We love our guns we love our S.T.E.M. we call
Them green so learn to code the code
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Finding That Smoking Gun Flying off the Shelves at the Epicenter of Ground Zero
‘Twas a riveting tale, flying off the shelves
A must-read forging a road at ground zero
An epicenter unlocking a path
To where you found the smoking gun – one hopes
That the gun will break before the news does
Because news is always breaking, but not
The guns, which always seem to empower us all
In breaking a glass floor or ceiling or something
We love our guns we love our S.T.E.M. we call
Them green so learn to code the code
Friday, February 14, 2020
Why We Shouldn't Abandon the Faith - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Because the bishops already have
And someone’s got to tidy up this place
You wash; I’ll dry
I’ll sweep; you mop
They’ll despise us anyway, but so what
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Why We Shouldn’t Abandon the Faith
Because the bishops already have
And someone’s got to tidy up this place
You wash; I’ll dry
I’ll sweep; you mop
They’ll despise us anyway, but so what
Thursday, February 13, 2020
Texas Rangers and a Nice Salad - weekly column
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Once upon a time most babies in our many American cultures were named from the Bible or from Christian or other heroes and role models. Frank Sinatra got a double from Francis of Assisi and Albertus Magnus. John Wayne’s birth names were for a revolutionary war hero and an Archangel. Tamzin, a ‘way cool name for English girls just now, is a derivation of Thomasina, for any of the many saints named Thomas, and Jude (a good disciple, not that other one) is a steady favorite.
From the formality of the birth certificate to the merriment of the playground names learned to run bases and sink baskets and win at hopscotch in truncated forms: Elizabeth won tennis matches as Liz or Libby, Joseph scored touchdowns as Joe, Matthew won the science fair (and kept the peace in Dodge City) as Matt, Katherine ran track as Kat or Katie, and so on.
In the 1960s parents more and more began naming their children after movie stars and geographical features.
And now we are in an era when parents name their children not for biblical figures, saints, or honored ancestors, but to appeal to anti-social media mobs (https://www.studyfinds.org/many-parents-giving-their-babies-outlandish-names-to-stand-out-on-social-media/).
I dunno; maybe they could name the kid Google or Verizon.
Among the trendy names mentioned are Tovin, Cedar, Maevery, Faelina, Idalia, Anaveah, Sylvalie, Sophiel, Jasping, Wrenlow, Eastley, Graylen, and Albion.
There are few certainties in life, but one is that no child in Ireland has ever or will ever be named Albion.
And will little Cedar be prone to allergies?
The concept is that one’s child should have a name that is unique – okay, name him Unique.
The article mentioned the name Hunter as an example of a scary name, and so instead of naming a boy Hunter try Ranger instead because it is as outdoorsy as Hunter but is “plant-based.” That is a direct quotation from the article: “plant-based.”
When one thinks of Texas Rangers and Army Rangers the concept of “plant-based” does not come to mind:
“Sergeant Jones, we’ve been ordered to take Hill 409 regardless of casualties. Tell the men I don’t think many of us are coming back. We jump off in one hour.”
“Oh, good, lieutenant; I’ll just have time for a nice salad with maybe just a soupcon of diet ranch dressing.”
Or maybe:
“Okay, Rangers, the most nefarious, orneriest, littering, jaywalking, boot-scooting, check-kiting, hamster-rustling, Salvation Army Kettle-robbing, dental floss not-using, tobacco-chawing bushwhackers in all of Texas are hiding in that area of sagebrush. We’re gonna go get ‘em.”
“Oh, goodness gracious, sergeant, what about our carbon footprint and the environmental impact on the sage, cacti, and other historic forms of plant life native to this area?”
As Shakespeare did not say,
“Bill or George – anything but Sue!”
Mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
What, Indeed, is in a Name?
“Bill or George - anything but Sue!”
-Johnny Cash
Once upon a time most babies in our many American cultures were named from the Bible or from Christian or other heroes and role models. Frank Sinatra got a double from Francis of Assisi and Albertus Magnus. John Wayne’s birth names were for a revolutionary war hero and an Archangel. Tamzin, a ‘way cool name for English girls just now, is a derivation of Thomasina, for any of the many saints named Thomas, and Jude (a good disciple, not that other one) is a steady favorite.
From the formality of the birth certificate to the merriment of the playground names learned to run bases and sink baskets and win at hopscotch in truncated forms: Elizabeth won tennis matches as Liz or Libby, Joseph scored touchdowns as Joe, Matthew won the science fair (and kept the peace in Dodge City) as Matt, Katherine ran track as Kat or Katie, and so on.
In the 1960s parents more and more began naming their children after movie stars and geographical features.
And now we are in an era when parents name their children not for biblical figures, saints, or honored ancestors, but to appeal to anti-social media mobs (https://www.studyfinds.org/many-parents-giving-their-babies-outlandish-names-to-stand-out-on-social-media/).
I dunno; maybe they could name the kid Google or Verizon.
Among the trendy names mentioned are Tovin, Cedar, Maevery, Faelina, Idalia, Anaveah, Sylvalie, Sophiel, Jasping, Wrenlow, Eastley, Graylen, and Albion.
There are few certainties in life, but one is that no child in Ireland has ever or will ever be named Albion.
And will little Cedar be prone to allergies?
The concept is that one’s child should have a name that is unique – okay, name him Unique.
The article mentioned the name Hunter as an example of a scary name, and so instead of naming a boy Hunter try Ranger instead because it is as outdoorsy as Hunter but is “plant-based.” That is a direct quotation from the article: “plant-based.”
When one thinks of Texas Rangers and Army Rangers the concept of “plant-based” does not come to mind:
“Sergeant Jones, we’ve been ordered to take Hill 409 regardless of casualties. Tell the men I don’t think many of us are coming back. We jump off in one hour.”
“Oh, good, lieutenant; I’ll just have time for a nice salad with maybe just a soupcon of diet ranch dressing.”
Or maybe:
“Okay, Rangers, the most nefarious, orneriest, littering, jaywalking, boot-scooting, check-kiting, hamster-rustling, Salvation Army Kettle-robbing, dental floss not-using, tobacco-chawing bushwhackers in all of Texas are hiding in that area of sagebrush. We’re gonna go get ‘em.”
“Oh, goodness gracious, sergeant, what about our carbon footprint and the environmental impact on the sage, cacti, and other historic forms of plant life native to this area?”
As Shakespeare did not say,
“Bill or George – anything but Sue!”
-30-
Upon Seeing Louis Malle's AU REVOIR LES ENFANTS - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Seeing is too weak a verb
We live his world through the pain of a boy
Who is lost in the world we adults made
We are lost in the January forest
Without our papers
We haven’t had fish in ages, ma’am. I recommend the rabbit.
Are we rabbits?
Are we the boys?
Are we the Milice?
Are we the Nazis at lunch?
Your papers, please. Your papers, sir
Now let me see your plastic
So that I know who you are
Are there wolves in these woods?
There are wolves everywhere
St. Thomas’s proofs of God’s existence don’t hold water
And neither do ours
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Upon Seeing Louis Malle’s Au Revoir les Enfants
Seeing is too weak a verb
We live his world through the pain of a boy
Who is lost in the world we adults made
We are lost in the January forest
Without our papers
We haven’t had fish in ages, ma’am. I recommend the rabbit.
Are we rabbits?
Are we the boys?
Are we the Milice?
Are we the Nazis at lunch?
Your papers, please. Your papers, sir
Now let me see your plastic
So that I know who you are
Are there wolves in these woods?
There are wolves everywhere
St. Thomas’s proofs of God’s existence don’t hold water
And neither do ours
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